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— - — tin 


Southern  Branch 
of  the 

University  of  California 


Los  Angeles 


Form  h-l 


This  book  is  DUE   on    the   last  date  stamped   below 


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Mar  2 


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0  1935 


JUN  1?  1945 


Form  L-9-5)»-7,'22 


ON    THE    TIBUR  ROAD 


ON  THE  TIBUR  ROAD 

A  Freshman's  Horace 


BT 

GEORGE  MEASON  WHICHER 

AND 

GEORGE  FRISBIE  WHICHER 
Wtth  a  Letter  in  Verse  by  Ellts  Parker  Butt.er 


'       ,  ...  <        V 

- 


.  1  ■• 


PRINCETON  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

PRINCETON 

1912 


A-\5^4 


Copyright  1911,  1912,  by  G.  M.  Whicher 
Bevised  1912,  with  additions 


lO 


^1- 

PREFACE 

A  few  of  the  following  verses  are  reprinted  from  Life, 
Scribner's  Magazine,  the  Independent,  the  Amherst  Literary 
Monthly,  and  obscurer  pages.  An  asterisk  will  tell  inquiring 
friends  which  writer  must  bear  the  initial  responsibility  for 
each  piece.     That  not  all  of  them  were  written  in  the  first 

j  college  year,   will  be  easily   inferred;   but  the  critically   in- 

clined who  conclude  that  all  might  have  been,  will  not  quarrel 
with  our  subtitle.  It  is  a  Freshman  idea,  no  doubt,  to  print 
the  lightest  echoes  heard  along  the  Tibur  Road,  especially 

fr  when  so  many  competent  reporters  have  long  ago  found  ac- 

ceptance.    But  why  attempt  excuse  or  palliation? 

The  twittering  sparrows  build  their  nest 
Unawed   in   many   an    ancient    fane. 
j  We  strew  our  rubbish  with  the  rest; 

Yet  undefiled  thy  courts  remain, 
Thanks  to  the  serried  }Tears,  the  biting  rain. 
O  Master  of  the  Lyric  Strain, 
What  Worst  could  dim  thy  shining  Best ! 

G.  M.  W. 
G.  F.  W. 
Alderhithe, 

Middle  H add am,  Connecticut. 
September,  1911. 


TO  G.  M.  W.  AND  G.  F.  W. 

A  mule  his  meagre  scrip  can  bear 
THE  T1BUR  ROAD. 

I 

Whenas — (I  love  that  "whcnas"  word- 
It  shows  I  am  a  poet,  too,) 

Q.  Horace  Flaccus  gaily  stirred 
The  welkin  with  his  tra-la-loo, 

He  little  thought  one  donkey's  back 
Would  carry  thus  a  double  load — 

Father  and  son  upon  one  jack, 

Galumphing  down  the  Tibur  Road. 


II 

Old  is  the  tale — Aesop's,  I  think — 

Of  that  famed  miller  and  his  son 
Whose  fortunes  were  so  "on  the  blink" 

They  had  one  donk,  and  only  one ; 
You  know  the  tale — the  critic's  squawk 

(As  pater  that  poor  ass  bestrode)  — 
"Selfish !   To  make  thy  fine  son  walk !" 

Perhaps  that  was  on  Tibur  Road? 


VI 


TO  G.  M.  W.  AND  O.  F.  W. 

Ill 

You  will  recall  how  dad  got  down 

And  made  the  son  the  ass  bestride: — 
The  critics  shouted  with  a  frown : 

"Shame,  boy !  pray  let  thy  father  ride !" 
Up  got  the  dad  beside  the  son; 

The  donkey  staggered  with  the  load 
"Poor  donk !  For  shame !"  cried  every  one 

That  walked  the  (was  it?)  Tibur  Road. 

IV 

You  know  the  end !  Upon  their"  backs 

Daddy  and  son  with  much  ado 
Boosted  that  most  surprised  of  jacks, — 

He  kicked,  and  off  the  bridge  he  flew ; 
"He !  haw !"  A  splash  !  A  gurgling  sound — 

A  long,  last  watery  abode — 
In  Anio's  stream  the  donk  was  drowned— 

(If  this  occurred  on  Tibur  Road.) 

V 

Let  Donkey  represent  the  Odes; 

The  Miller  represent  G.  M.; 
The  Son  stand  for  G.  F.;  the  loads 

Of  Critics — /  will  do  for  them. 
Now,  then,  this  proposition  made, 

(And  my  bum  verses  "Ah'd"  and  "Oh'd  !") 
What  Q.  E.  D.  can  be  displayed 

Anent  this  "On  the  Tibur  Road"? 


Vll 


TO  G.  M.  W.  AND  a.  F.  w. 

VI 

First,  Horry's  dead  and  he  don't  care, 

So  cancel  him,  and  let  him  snore; 
His  Donkey  has  been  raised  in  air 

So  oft  he's  tough  and  calloused  o'er; 
Our  Miller — -dusty-headed  man — 

Follows  the  best  donk-boosting  code: 
Our  Son — dispute  it  no  one  can — 

Sings  gaily  down  the  Tibur  Road. 

VII 

This,  then,  must  be  this  Critic's  scream : — 

The  donk  was  boosted  well  and  high, 
And,  ergo !  falling  in  the  stream, 

Isn't  and  ain't  and  cant  be  dry; 
Nor  is  your  book.     Which  is  to  say 

It  is  no  gloomy  episode — 
You've  made  a  dead  donk  sweetly  bray, 

And  joyful  is  the  Tibur  Road. 

Ellis   Parker   Butler 


via 


To  E.  P.  B. 

Dear  Ellis :  We  are  quite  resigned, 

Though  no  admiring  public  heeds  us  ; 
One  consolation  still  we  find 
To  soothe  the  heart  and  calm  the  mind  : 
Just  see  how  closely  Ellis  reads  us ! 

Bandusian  Fountain  !     Potent  yet 

The  waters  from  thy  pool  are  gushing. 
For  our  parched  lips  we  will  not  fret, 
If  through  our  book  one  little  jet 
May  irrigate  the  farm  in  Flushing. 

What  though  the  printer's-binder's  bills 

Do  threaten  us  with  ruination? 
Our  smarting  eyes  one  vision  fills, 
One  glorious  hope  our  bosom  thrills: 
This  may  be  Ellis's  salvation  !  ! 

O  Dollars  wasted  on  express ! 

0  Cold  Cash  spent  for  advertising! 
Your  going  does  not  cause  distress ; 
We  part  from  you  with  bliss— no  less — 

As  long  as  His  ideals  are  rising. 


IX 


TO    E.   P.   B. 

O  joy,  to  think  that  from  our  page 
He  quaffs  the  undiluted  Massic ! 
That  PIGS  IS  PIGS,  while  still  the  rage, 
Improves  through  each  revolving  age, 
And  mounts  by  contact  with  the  classic. 

SUES  SUNT  SUES  it  will  stand 

In  its  two-million-tenth  edition. 
What  though  we  perish  from  the  land, 
Unboomed,   uninterviewed,   unscanned, 

We  have  achieved  our  last  ambition. 

What  though  we  sink  in  Lethe-ooze 
And  taste  that  wave  of  bitter  savor? 

What  higher  fate  could  author  choose 

Than  to  inspire  the  Butler  Muse, 
And  give  her  lines  Horatian  flavor. 

Then  heedless  dust  be  our  abode, 

Our  names  mis-spelled,  ourselves  mistaken ! 
Let  others  reap  where  we  have  sowed, 
If  we  but  boom  on  Tibur  Road 

The  Butler  brand  of  Sabine  bacon ! 


CONTENTS 

Ellis  Parker  Butler  to  G.  M.  W.  and  G.  F.  W vi 

To  E.   P.   B •• >x 

To   Our    Best    Third .. i 

Foreword    2 

The  Tibur  Road    3 

Sabine   Hills    5 

The   Haunts   of    Horace 6 

Of   Wealth 7 

Prospectus    to 

Remembrance    •  • n 

To    E.    M 12 

To  A  Headmistress 15 

To  Leuconoe ■  • 16 

To  Lalage   17 

To    Pyrrha    19 

To  Barine   20 

To  Lydia    •  • 22 

To  Chloe   24 

To  Lydia    26 

To  Lydia    27 

Of   Myrtale    29 

To  Lyce 31 

Ballade  of  Horace's  Loves 33 

Relicta    Parmula    •  • 37 

On  Friendship    38 

An    Invitation 40 

The  Aims   of   Human   Kind •  •  . . .  41 

To    Postumus    43 

A  Winter   Party    45 

A   Proper   Feast    •  • 47 

Melpomene     49 

xi 


CONTENTS 

"O  Virgin  Warder  of  the  Mountain  Pines"    51 

Hymn   for  the  Neptunalia 52 

Hymn  for  Faunus'  Day •  • 54 

Hymn  to  Diana  and  Apollo 55 

Fontinalia •  •  56 

The  Poet's  Prayer   •  ■ . .  57 

Horace's  Diet   59 

On  a  Disaster  in  Plaster 60 

The  Campaigner    61 

The  Death  of  Cleopatra 63 

On   Translating  the   Foregoing 64 

Simplicity   65 

My   Sabine  Farm    . . .  •  • 66 

In  Deep  Water   67 

To  Chloe   68 

De   Consolatione 70 

To  Franklin  P.  Adams 75 

Donarem    Pateras    ■ 76 

Vitas   Hinnuleo    79 

Vixi    Puellis    80 

Caelo    Supinas    82 

Scriberis    Vario    84 

Non  Usitata 86 

O  Navis 88 

Eheu    Fugaces    go 

Vitas    Hinnuleo 92 

In    Memoriam    94 

Epistle   to   Septimius    •  • 96 

To    Dellius    98 

Epilogue    100 

Index  of  Odes 101 


xn 


TO  OUR  BEST  THIRD 
L.  F.  W. 

Had  He  seen  you,  a  higher  grace 
His  curious  art  had  striven  to  trace; 
More  •winning  would  the  portrait  stand 
Than,  Hypermncstra,  faithless-grand, 
Or  Phidylc,  whom  no  years  erase. 

What   tenderer  lines   would   there  find  place, 
Had  not  the  gods  a  Wife's  embrace, 
A  Mother's  yearning,  from  him  banned, — 
Had  he  seen  you! 

Had  he  but  known  your  mild  command, 
Your  self-less  love,  he  had  not  planned 
His   Myrtale   harsh,    Barinc   base, 
Nor  mocked  at  Lyce's  once-loved  face; 
What  we  two  know,  he'd  understand, 
Had  he  seen  you! 


* 


FOREWORD 

When  Horace  wished  to  write  an  ode 
And  happy  thoughts  were  far  to  seek, 

He'd  take  a  turn  on  Tibur  Road 
And  lift  a  stanza  from  the  Greek. 

The  songs  he  sang  with  kindly  cheer 

Have  loosed  our  tongues,  that  else  were  mute, 

To  give  our  friends  and  friends'  friends  here 
A  touch  of  our  Horatian  lute. 

Eheu !  the  fleeting  seasons  pass, 

His  lyre  shall  sound  when  ours  shall  cease, 
So  now  to  his  enduring  brass 

We  fix  our  spot  of  verdigris. 


2 


THE  TIBUR  ROAD 

Not  in  the  fashion  of  the  great, 

A-horse  with  hampering  retinue, 
The  Poet  reached  his  small  estate; 

Such  pomps  afflict  the  well-to-do ! 

Alone  he  rides  the  valley  through, 
A  mule  his  meagre  scrip  can  bear, 
And  no  invidious  eyes  compare 

Its  withers  galled  or  swaying  load 
With  any  lordly  trains  that  fare 

Along  the  sunlit  Tibur  Road. 

Ay,  pleasant  was  the  way  and  straight 

Where,  under  skies  of  softest  hue, 
The  Anio  plunged  precipitate, 

And  tall  the  shadowy  plane-trees  grew. 

Perchance  some  Chloe  fled  the  view ; 
Or  Pyrrha,  seeming  unaware, 
Twined  roses  in  her  fragrant  hair, 

While  green  the  rushing  current  flowed ; 
Or  Lyce  ogled  from  her  chair 

Along  the  sunlit  Tibur  Road. 

O  merry  Poet,  mild  was  fate, 

On  thee  no  wind  untempered  blew, 


THE  TIBUR  ROAD 

In  comradeship  most  fortunate! 

Sweet  breath  of  Sabine  vineyards  drew 

Thee  and  thy  friends,  the  favored  few, 
From  bustling  street  and  brimming  square, 
And  lured  to  taste  thy  country  air 

Maecenas   from  his  proud  abode, 
Vergil  and  Varius — spirits   rare ! 

Along  the  sunlit  Tibur  Road. 

Envoi 
Horace,  thy  tranquil  soul  doth  share 
With  us,  immersed  in  coils  and  care, 

The  unfading  charm  of  many  an  ode 
That  bids  us  flee  from  grim  despair 

Along  the  sunlit  Tibur  Road. 


4 


SABINE  HILLS 

On   Sabine  hills  when  melt  the  imows, 
Still  level-full  His  river  flows ; 
Each  April  now  His  valley  fills 
With  cyclamen  and  daffodils ; 
And  summers  wither  with  the  rose. 

Swift-waning  moons  the  cycle  close : 
Birth, — toil, — mirth, — death;  life  onward  goes 
Through  harvest  heat  or  winter  chills 
On  Sabine  hills. 

Yet  One  breaks  not  His  long  repose, 
Nor  hither  comes  when  Zephyr  blows; 
In  vain  the  spring's  first  swallow  trills ; 
Never  again  that  Presence  thrills ; 
One  charm  no  circling  season  knows 
On  Sabine  hills. 


THE  HAUNTS  OF  HORACE 

An  ever  present  source  of  fresh  delight 
Lies  in  the  wonderland  thy  lays  unfold ; 
I  read  the  tales  that  Sabine  farmers  told 

On  winter  evenings  'round  the  embers  bright, 

The  roistering  and  revelry  of  night 

When  spiced  Falernian  foamed  from  flagons  old, 
The  songs  that  lovers  to  their  ladies  trolled 

In  some  close  nook  secluded  from  the  sight. 

A  sure  relief  it  is,  when  ill  at  ease, 

To  walk  with  thee  in  this  fair  realm  of  thine, 

To  watch  the  choral  dance  beneath  the  trees, 
And  chant  the  praises  of  the  sacred  Nine ; 

Baffled  to  gaze  as  Chloe  coyly  flees, 

Or  drink  with  Lyde  draughts  of  sparkling  wine. 


6 


OF  WEALTH 
To  Q.  H.  F. 

To  thee  among  the  singing  spheres 

Is  given  a  part; 
Untarnished  by  the  envious  years, 
Unmated  still  thy  song  appears ; 
Too  kind  for  scorn,  too  wise  for-  tears, 

Thy  matchless  art. 

Then,  Horace,  what  the  scorn  I  win, — 

How  all  will  jest! 
If,  fleeing  from  the  city's  din 
(As  long  ago  thou  didst  begin) 
I  boast  thy  lot  to  mine  is  kin, 

But  mine  more  blest ! 

Thou  too  didst  shun  the  smoke,  the  stress, 

The  brawling  street, 
And  in  thy  Sabine  wilderness, 
On  fare  of  chicory  and  cress, 
The  Simple  Life  thou  didst  possess, — 

A  calm  retreat. 

There  by  Digentia's  quiet  shore 
Thy  mind  was  bent 


OF   WEALTH 

With  friends  to  share  thy  frugal  store, 
To  tell  thy  vines  and  cornels  o'er, 
Above  some  deathless  scroll  to  pore 
In   rich  content. 

Mine  too  the  gifts  that  match  with  these ; 

The  gods  have  given 
A  bit  of  land,  a  clump  of  trees, 
A  living  spring:  what  more  could  please? 
Nor  I  for  wider  acres  tease 

Unwilling  Heaven. 

Strait  is  my  valley ;  its  green  hills 

Take,   too,  the  beams 
Of  dawn;  or  sunset  glory  spills 
Along  their  crest  when  whippoorwills 
Wake  dim  regret,  and  evening  fills 
The  world  with  dreams. 

Beside  my  river  I  can  view 

My  garden-plot; 
Here  blooms  the  quince ;  there  apples  strew 
Their  gifts ;  and  softly  falls  the  dew 
On  iris,  spearmint,  and  the  blue 

Forget-me-not. 

Ah !  happy  hours,  when  soft  reclined 
On  cooling  grass, 

8 


OF   WEALTH 

Within  one  living  page  I  find 
What  mirth,  wit,  wisdom  all  combined! 
A  feeling  heart,  a  mellow  mind ! 
Thy  Magic  Glass! 

Yet  more :  beneath  my  roof, — where  shade 

Alternate  falls 
Of  elm  and  maple  zephyr-swayed, — 
The  choicest  gift  the  gods  have  made 
Abides,  my  wealth :  it  never  stayed 

Within  thy  walls  !     . 

Yes,  Flaccus,  greater  wealth  is  mine 

Than  thou  hast  tried. 
Save  that  sole  gift  of  song  divine, 
All  that  the  Gracious  Ones  made  thine, 
To  me — with  Love — they  now  assign, 
And  thee  beside ! 

O  Poet,  keep  thy  golden  name, 

Thy  deathless  voice. 
One  gift  is  Love  and  one  is  Fame. 
The  gods,  who  reck  nor  praise  nor  blame, 
Divide:  what  bounty  wouldst  thou  claim? 

I  bless  their  choice. 


PROSPECTUS 

Two  dreamers  we,  and  dread  not  Time's  mischances ; 
Let   Fortune   smile   or   frown   or   go   or   stay, 
Our  wealth  abides ;  and  foul  or  fair  her  glances, — 
Hey-nonny-nonny ! — pipe  the  jade  away! 

To  tend  the  Sacred  Fire  that  needs  no  fuel, — 
To  dwell  on  Helicon  and  pay  no  rent, — 
To  meditate  the  Muse  and  dine  on  gruel, — 
How  rich  are  we  who  therewith  are  content ! 

Let  yon  pale  cit,  whose  sole  and  only  classic 
Is  his  fat  ledger,  cringe  and  toil  and  pray. 
For  us  the  Spring,  the  Arbute-tree,  the  Massic, 
And  loaf  with  Horace  all  the  solid  day ! 

We  covet  not  your  well-filled,  tight-laced  purses, 
Those  gilded  garners  for  the  moth  and  rust; 
Leave  us  but  stylus,  tablets,  Flaccus'  verses, 
We  reign  in  rags  and  banquet  on  a  crust. 


10 


REMEMBRANCE 

Omar  is  dead,  who  loved  so  well  his  wine ; 
Above  his  mouldering  grave  the  roses  twine. 
And  Horace  now — for  all  his  Golden  Mean — 
Is  nameless  dust  upon  the  Esquiline. 

It  matters  not,  or  sad  or  glad  the  strain ; 
Each  poet  sings  his  hour,  nor  comes  again. 
Whate'er  he  was  or  had  or  hoped  is  gone ; 
His  songs  alone  immortal  may  remain. 

Ah !  what  will  be,  my  friend,  for  you  to  guess 
Of  me,  who  pass  to  utter  nothingness? 
Who  have  no  voice  to  echo  in  your  heart 
When  death  shall  make  my  present  little  less? 

Then  whensoe'er  you  turn  the  pages  through 
Where  smiling  Horace  bares  his  heart  to  view — 
When  Omar's  muted  strings  wake  sweet  regret — 
Turn  down  the  leaf  and  think :   He  loved  them  too. 


11 


TO  E.  M. 
FROM  MAINE 

O  sweet  to  hear  when  Horace  sings 

Of  olive  or  late  lingering  rose, 
The  lonely  ilex  tree  that  springs 

Where  the  clear  murmuring  fountain  flows, — 
To  hear  in  fancy  through  his  Sabine  vales 

The  immortal  music  of  the  nightingales. 

But  dearer  to  your  hearts  and  mine 
The  winds  that  whisper  of  the  snow, 

The  granite  slopes  of  fir  and  pine 
Where  arbutus  and  bloodroot  grow ; 

Ear  clearer,  o'er  the  keen  New  England  hills, 
Speak   to    our   dreams    the    yearning   whippoor 
wills. 


12 


A  BOOK  OF  HORACE'S  SWEETHEARTS 


TO  A  HEADMISTRESS 

A  learned  friend  has  bought  my  rhymes 
And  paid  hard  silver  for  them ; 
But  O  to  think  how  many  times 
Her  learned  pen  will  score  them ! 

0  miserere,  Mistress  Schodts  ! 
(That's  Latin  for  Have  Pity.)  ' 

1  know  I've  blundered  lots  and  lots, 
But  listen  to  my  ditty : 

No  common  bard  like  me  could  vie 
With  your  refined  acumen. 
Just  pass  my  imperfections  by 
And  smile  and  say  "How  human !" 


15 


TO  LEUCONOE 

THAT  SHE   SHOULD   NOT  ASK   HER   FATE 

Tu  ne  quaesieris. — I.n 

Seek  not  to  learn,  for  thou  canst  never  know, 
How  many  years  of  life  to  thee  or  me 
The  gods  above  will  grant,  Leuconoe, 
Nor  trust  what  Chaldee  calculations  show. 

Far  better  to  endure  what  fates  bestow, 

Should  they  more  winters  give,  or  should  this  be 
The  last,  that  dashes  now  the  Tuscan  sea 
Tempestuous  on  the  cliffs  with  angry  blow. 

Be  wise :  draw  off  the  wine ;  without  delay 

Proportion  thy  high  hopes  to  life's  brief  span. 
E'en  while  we're  speaking,  envious  Time  has  gone 

Beyond  recall.     Thine  is  the  present  day, 

Grasp  it,  enjoy  it  now,  nor  trust  the  plan 

Of  leaving  aught  until  the  morrow's  dawn. 

* 


16 


OF  LALAGE 

THAT   SHE   KEEPS   HIS   HEART   PURE 

Integer  vitae. — 1.22 

He  needs  no  Moorish  dart 
Who  wanders  pure  in  heart, 

Whose  life  is  unimpaired,  unstained  by  crime ; 
He  bears  no  bow,  no  quiver's  Toad 
Of  poisoned  arrows  on  his  road, 

O  Fuscus,  though  he  seek  the  wildest  clime: 

Whether  on  Afric  seas 

He  take  the  sweltering  breeze ; 

Or  frore,  unfriendly  peaks  Caucasian  scale; 
Or  journey  by  the  distant  waves 
Where  unexplored  Hydaspes  laves 

His  shores,  renowned  in  many  an  ancient  tale. 

For  wandering  care-free, 

Singing  my  Lalage, 
In  Sabine  woods  beyond  my  bounds  I  strayed ; 

Such  virtue  dwelleth  in  that  song 

To  banish  aught  impure  or  wrong, 
A  grisly  Avolf  that  met  me,  fled  afraid. 

17 


OF  LALAGE 

Such  fearsome  monster  ne'er 
The  spreading  oak-groves  bare, 

Where  Daunus  ruled  his  warlike  folk  of  old ; 
Nor  yet,  where  Juba  held  command, 
Sprang  ever  such  from  Afric  sand, 

Parched  nourisher  of  lions  fierce  and  bold. 

O  place  me  in  the  zone 

Where  Winter  rules  alone, 
And  sluggish  breezes  wake  to  life  no  flower; 

Where  evil  mists  forever  bide, 

And  o'er  the  earth's  deserted  side 
The  Jove  of  tempest  wills  that  storm-wrack  lower ; 

Or  set  me  where  the  sun 

His  car  too  near  doth  run 
To  scorched  lands,  where  homes  may  never  be : 

Whate'er  the  sky  may  be  above, 

With  heart  unstained  I  still  shall  love 
Sweet-smiling  and  sweet-prattling  Lalage. 


18 


TO  PYRRHA 

THAT  SHE  IS  BUT  A  COQUETTE 

Quis  mult  a  gracilis. — 1.5 

What  slim  youth  now,  bedewed  with  soft  perfume, 

On  banks  of  roses  thee  caresses, 
0  Pyrrha,  hid  in  some  cool  cavern's  gloom? 

For  whom  dost  bind  thy  golden  tresses 

In  graceful  neatness?     Ah,  how  oft  will  he 

His  misplaced  confidence  bewail, 
Who,  inexperienced,  wonders  at  the  sea 

Aroused  and  darkened  by  the  gale ! 

Yet  thou  as  gold  delectable  dost  seem 

To  his  too  easily  bedazzled  eyes, 
Who  thinks  thee  ever  true,  without  a  dream 

That  storms  may  take  him  by  surprise. 

Unfortunates,  to  whom  thou  like  a  sea 

Untried,  dost  yet  alluring  shine ! 
A  tablet  hung  on  Neptune's  wall  by  me 

Shows  what  a  shipwreck  late  was  mine. 


19 


TO  BARINE 

THAT    SHE    IS    A    MONSTROUS    LIAR 

Ulla  si  iuris. — II.8 

Barine,  had  there  aught  of  harm 
Befallen  thee   from  broken  vow, — 
Hadst  thou  but  lost  a  single  charm, 
Less  fair  become  in  eye  or  brow, — 
I  might  believe  thee  now. 

But  thou,  as  soon  as  thou  dost  stake 
Thy  head  with  some  perfidious  prayer, 
More  lovely  yet  thy  form  dost  make, 
To  all  the  youth  a  toast  more  rare, 
Thy  fatal  face  more  fair! 

Yea,  by  thy  buried  mother's  shade 
It  only  profits  thee  to  lie; 
And  thou  hast  flouted,  unafraid, 
The  speechless  stars  in  all  the  sky, 
And  gods  that  never  die. 

And  Venus'  self  at  this  has  laughed; 
The  simple  Nymphs  will  laugh,  I  say ; 
And  Cupid,  too,  whose  fiery  shaft 

20 


TO  B  A  BINE 

On  his  blood-dripping  stone  alway 
He  whets  day  after  day. 

Add  one  count  more :  there  ever  grow 
Still  other  youths,  all  slaves  for  thee ! 
While  yet  no  earlier  victims  go, — 
None  from  their  impious  mistress  flee, 
Whate'er  their  threat'nings  be ! 

All  mothers   dread   thee   for  their  boys ; 
And  old  men  fear  thee,  misers  grown  ; 
And  piteous  brides,  on  whose  new  joys 
But  once  thy  deadly  breath  has  blown, 
To  make  them  all  thine  own. 


21 


TO  LYDIA 

THAT    SHE    IS    RECONCILED 

Donee  gratus  eram. — III. 9 

HORACE 

While  dear  to  thee  I  still  remained, 
Nor  any  other  youth  more  favored  pressed 
His  arms  around  thy  gleaming  neck,  more  blest 
Than  any  Persian  king  I  reigned. 

LYDIA 

When  thou  didst  feel  no  other  flame, 
Nor  Chloe  was  o'er  Lydia  preferred, 
Not  more  of  Roman  Ilia  was  heard, 
And  Lydia  was  the  one  bright  name. 

HORACE 

'Tis  Thracian  Chloe  rules  me  now; 
Sweet  music  she  hath  learned  and  knows  the  lyre. 
So  she  might  live,  I'd  gladly  mount  the  pyre, 
Would  fate  but  spare  her  to  my  vow. 

LYDIA 

A  mutual  love  inflames  me  now 
And  Thurian  Calais,  born  of  noble  sire; 
Twice  o'er  for  him  I'd  gladly  mount  the  pyre, 
Would  fate  but  spare  him  to  my  vow. 

22 


TO  LYDIA 
HORACE 

What  if  our  old-time  love  returned 

And  joined   our  sundered   hearts   with   yoke   of  brass? 

If  o'er  the  threshold  Lydia  might  pass 

And  fair-haired  Chloe  thence  be  spurned? 

LYDIA 

The  fairest  star  in  all  the  sky 
Is  he;  while  thou  art  fickle;  Hadria's  rage 
Less  fell.     And  yet  how  fain  would  I  engage 
To  live  with  thee,  with  thee  to  die ! 


23 


TO  CHLOE 

THAT   SHE  HATH   JILTED   HIM 
I 

Vitas  hinnuleo. — 1.23 

Chloe,  you  flee  when  I  am  nigh 

Like  any  fearful  fawn  that  high 

On  many  a  mountain  path  has  strayed 
To  seek  its  timid  dam,  afraid 

Of  every  copse  it  passes  by. 

When  breezes  in  the  bushes  sigh, 
Or  lizards  brush  the  brambles  dry, 
How  it  startles ! — so,  dismayed, 
Chloe,  you  flee. 

A  tiger  well  might  terrify ; 

No  leonine  intent  have  I. 

No  longer  ask  your  mother's  aid, 
A  husband  soon  must  be  obeyed; 

The  time  is  ripe.     O  tell  me  why, 
Chloe,  you  flee! 


24 


TO    CHLOE 

II 

Vixi  puellis. — III. 26 

That  late  I  loved  I  do  repent; 
To  maids  no  more  bellipotent, 

I  now  from  arms  and  lyre  abstain ; 

The  leftward  wall  of  Venus'  fane 
Shall  hold  the  amorous  armament. 

Here  lie  the  bars,  the  flambeaux  spent, 
The  pliant  bows  that  once  I  bent    . 
Against  the  gates  of  her  disdain 
That  late  I  loved. 

Imperial  queen,  that  dost  frequent 

Cyprus,  and  Memphis  innocent 

Of  Scythian  snows,  a  boon  I'd  gain  : 
Raise  once  thy  lash  with  might  and  main 

And  smite  that   Chloe   (impudent!) 
That  late  I  loved. 


25 


TO  LYDIA 

ON     SPOILING    SYBARIS 

Lydia,  die. — 1.8 

Say,  Lydia,  I  entreat  by  all  the  gods  above, 

Why  haste  you  to  destroy  fond  Sybaris  with  love? 

Why  shuns  he  now  the  plain,  the  dust  and  heat  once  borne? 

With  all  his  peers  a-horse,  what  cause  can  make  him  scorn 

To  stride  the  Gallic  steed,  straining  the  fanged  bit? 

Fears  he  the  tawny  Tiber  who  erst  rejoiced  in  it? 

Why  dreads  he  olive  oil  as  though  't  were  viper's  gore, 

Nor  practice  arms,  who  shone  pre-eminent  before 

In  hurling  o'er  the  mark  discus  and  javelin? 

Like  sea-born  Thetis'  son,  who,  ere  the  entering  in 

Of  Troy-town,  sought  to  'scape  the  Lycians'  grim  array 

In  maiden's  weeds :  why  hides  thy  lover,  Lydia,  say ! 


26 


TO  LYUIA 

THAT    SHE    PRAISE    NOT    HIS    RIVAL 

Cum  tu,  Lydia. — 1.13 

When  you   to   Telephus   devote, 

0  Lydia,  your  choicest  phrases, 
And   either   Telephus'   white   throat 

Or  wax-like  arms  excite  your  praises, 
Bah !  my  disgusted  anger  surges 
Like  waves  which  stormy  Notus  urges. 

Then  I  am  blinded  by  my  wrath, 

And  quite  unstable  my  complexion  ; 

While  on  my  cheek  a  tear-stained  path 

Shows  how  I  mourn  your  changed  affection. 

For  when  to  me  you're  ever  lost 

I  burn,  a  lingering  holocaust. 

I  burn  to  think  how,  mad  with  wine, 

That  boy  in  drunken  rage  may  mar 

With  blows  those  gleaming  arms  of  thine, 
Or  leave  upon  thy  lips  a  scar. 

Ah !  who  could  that  fair  mouth  abuse 

Which  Venus  with  all  sweets  endues ! 


27 


TO  LYDIA 

O  thrice  and  four  times  blessed  they 
Whose  life  no  evil  quarrel  knows, 

But  calm  and  peaceful  day  by  day 
Glides  as  a  quiet  river  flows ; 

Whom  an  unbroken  bond  holds  ever 

Until  the  last  sad  day  shall  sever. 


28 


OF  MYRTALE 

THAT   SHE    WAS   EXCEEDING   FIERCE 

Albl,  nc  doleas. — 1.33 

Grieve  not,  my  Albliis,  all  too  sore; 

Hard-hearted  Glycera  forget. 
To  sing  thy  piteous  lays  give  o'er ; 

Thy  rival  only  shines  the  more, 
And  she  for  broken  faith  feels  no  regret. 


Far-famous  for  her  slender  brow, 
L^coris'  heart  for  Cyrus  burns 

With  parching  passion ;  Cyrus  now 
To  Pholoe  inclines  his  vow; 
As  sharply  she  his  base  advances  spurns 


As  flees  the  flock  when  wolves  pursue. 
Thus  Venus  wills;  her  cruel  joke 
Doth  soul  to  soul  unlike  subdue, 
And   lovers    unrequited   sue, 
Unequal  joined  beneath  her  brazen  yoke. 


29 


OF  MYRTALE 

I,  too,  of  a  nobler  love  might  tell; 

She  wooed  me,  still  in  tender  bands 
By  Myrtale  held;  whom  I  loved  well, 

Though   servile-born,   and   far  more   fell 
Than  billows  on  the  curved  Calabrian  sands. 


30 


TO  LYCE 

THAT  SHE  IS  GROWN  OLD 

Audivere,  Lyce.—IY.l3 

The  gods  have  heard,  O  Lyce!  heard  my  prayer — 
The  gods  have  heard — and  thou  art  old ! 
And  yet  thou  still  wouldst  fain  be  counted  fair; 
With  wine  and  laughter  bold 

Thy  tipsy  quavering  voice  full  often  seeks 
By  song  to  waken  soft  Desire. 
But  Love  lurks  now  in  Chia's  tender  cheeks, 
Young  mistress  of  the  lyre ! . 

Ever  unsated,  still  Love  flits  away 
From  aged,  withered  oaks  like  thee ; 
No  wrinkled  face  like  thine  can  bid  him  stay 
Thy  faded  charms  to  see. 

Thy  Coan  purple  never  can  restore — 
Nor  gems  of  price — those  days  again 
Which  once  fast-flying  Time  hath  reckoned  o'er 
In  records  all  too  plain. 

Where  now  hath  fled   thy   charm?   thy  beauty  where? 
Thy  comely  grace?     What  now  is  left 

31 


TO    LYCE 

Of  her — of  her — who,  love  in  every  air, 
Me  of  myself  bereft? 

For — after  Cinara — fate  to  thee  was  kind : 
Wide-famed,  with  Welcome  in  thy  face. 
But  few  the  years  the  gods  to  her  assigned ; 
Yet  kept  thee  in  thy  place. 

To  be  the  aged  raven's  withered  peer, 
That  ardent  youths  may  now  behold 
Thy  bumt-out  torch,  and  flout  with  many  a  jeer 
The  ashes  stale  and  cold. 


32 


BALLADE  OF  HORACE'S  LO^ES 

Lydia,  fickle  and  fair, 

Lyce,  the  faded  of  hue, 
Lalage,  Pholoe  .   .   .  there ! 

Hark  how  the  L's  ripple  through. 

These  were  the  beauties  that  drew, 
These  lilting  and  lyrical  dames ! 

Leuconoe,  Glycera  .   .   .  Pooh! 
Why,    Horace,    they're    nothing    but    names ! 

Pyrrha,  the  golden  of  hair, 

Lyde  the  lyrist,  the  shrew 
Myrtale  .   .   .   well,  I  declare ! 

What  in  the  world  shall  we  do, 

If  critics  abolish  the  crew, 
Their  gallants  and  gaddings  and  games? 

Barine,  Lycoris,  adieu ! 
Alas !  ye  are  nothing  but  names. 

All  were  but  syllabled  air, 

Fancies  that  flickered  and  flew: 

Innocent  Phidyle's  prayer, 

Chloe  the  fawn,  and  the  few 
Years  that  your  Cinara  knew, 


33 


BALLADE  OF  HORACE'S  LOVES 

Cinara,  sweetest  of  flames ! 

Ah,  Horace,  I'm  sorry  for  you ! 
Alas !  they  were  nothing  but  names. 

Envoi 

Ladies !  ye  shrink  from  this  view ; 

But  soon  all  your  loves  and  your  fames, 
Fun,  frailties,  frolics, — ye  too, 

Alas !  will  be  nothing  but  names ! 


34 


A  BOOK  OF  HORACE'S  MUSINGS 


RELICTA  PARMULA 

He  leaves  his  shield  behind 

Who  bares  his  heart  in   verse ; 
For  better  or  for  worse, 

Who  wills  may  read  his  mind. 

Ah !  happy  he  who  flies, 

And  when  the  tumult  ends, 
Finds   in  the  hands   of   friends 

His  armor  held  a  prize ! 


37 


ON  FRIENDSHIP 

(Model  for  a  convertible  toast) 

When  Quintus  Flaccus  tunes  his  Lesbian  Lyre 
And  cribs  a  brand-new  meter  from  the  Greeks, 
What  best  can  kindle  his  poetic  fire? 
What  theme  most  moves  us  when  the  Poet  speaks? 

Sure  not  his  frail,  imaginary  ladies ; 
Lord,  no !  they  leave  the  modern  bosom  cold. 
Not  the  grim  Shades  he  (almost)  saw  in  Hades; 
Our   consciences   are  clearer,  or  more  bold. 

So  oft  he  preaches  Golden  Moderation, 
He  makes  one  long  to  dare  life's  last  and  worst. 
He  scolds  the  frantic  rich:  our  indignation 
Waxes  but  faint, — he  can't  compete  with  Hearst. 

But  there's  one  theme  where  he  can  charm  completely, 
One  winning  strain  we  wish  might  never  end ; 
His  golden  shell  can  never  clash  so  sweetly, 
As  when  he  celebrates  a  loving  friend. 

Maecenas !  Vergil !  how  the  recollection 
Brightens  to  hear  the  ardent  numbers  roll ! 
From  stiff  Alcaics  breathes  what  fond  affection 
To  warm  the  wintry  cockles  of  the  soul ! 

38 


ON  FRIENDSHIP 


Then  taught  by  him,  my  Muse,  be  wise  in  season, 
Nor  trim  thy  tiny  sail  o'er  mighty  seas. 
Content,  let  others  spread  the  feast  of  reason ; 
Thou  only  in  the  flow  of  soul  canst  please. 


Let  others  praise  our 


Artist 

Scholar 

Lawyer 

Statesman 

Author 

Teacher 


Honor 

Wisdom 
For /Foresight 

Learning 

Art 

Sing  thou   of  Johnn}r   Doe    (God   bless   the   creature!) 
The  Other  Half  of  each  good  fellow's  Heart. 


39 


AN  INVITATION 
Vile  potabis.— 1.20 

Maecenas,  when  you  grace  my  board 

(And  don't,   dear  Knight,   decline   to    favor) 

You'll  drink  poor  cups  of  Sabine,  stored 
In  Grecian  jar  to  get  the  flavor. 

That  very  day  the  wine  I  sealed 

When  so  distinct  your  plaudits  rang  out 

That  echoes  pealed  from  cliff  and  field; 
So  don't  neglect  my  humble  hang-out. 

Though  here  you'll  taste  no  Formian  vine, 

No  product  of  Calenian  vat, 
We'll  have  with  just  the  cheap  Sabine 

A  very  creditable  bat. 


40 


THE  AIMS  OF  HUMAN  KIND 

Maecenas  atavis. — 1.1 

Maecenas,  sprung  from  royal  lineage  bright, 
Both  my  protector  and  my  dear  delight, 
How  varied  are  the  aims  of  human  kind ! 
Some  in  the  chariot  race  their  pleasure  find, 
Tossing  Olympia's  dust  as  they  skim-  by 
The  goal  with  flashing  wheel,  and  onward  fly ; 
Them  the  ennobling  palm — to  victors  given- 
Masters  of  men  exalts  to  lords  of  heaven. 
One,  if  the  fickle  crowd  has  dignified 
With  three-fold  offices,   is   satisfied. 
Another,  if  within  his  barns  is  stored 
What  grain  the  Libyan  threshing-floors  afford. 
While  he  who  loves  to  ply  with  his  own  hands 
The  mattock  on  his  small,  ancestral  lands, 
Would  not,  for  all  the  wealth  Attalic,  be 
A  timid  sailor  on  the  Myrtoan  sea. 
The  merchant,  dreading  much  the  Afric  blasts 
Contending  with  the  Icarian  waves,  contrasts 
The  peace  and  safety  of  his  rural  home ; 
But  soon  refits  his  bark,  again  to  roam, 
Impatient  at  a  life  of  mean  estate. 
Others  old  Massic  do  not  deprecate, 

41 


THE  AIMS  OF  HUMAN  KIND 

Stretched  at  their  ease  an  hour  or  so  each  day 

'Neath  arbute  green,  where  quiet  fountains  play. 

Many  in  camps  and  conquest  find  delight, 

And  trumpet  blasts,  the  cause  of  mothers'  fright. 

The  hunter  'neath  the  chilly  sky  will  bide 

Unmindful  of  his  home  and  tender  bride, 

Whether  behind  the  deer  his  hounds  give  tongue, 

Or  Marsian  boar  through  fine-meshed  net  has  sprung. 

But  none  of  these  for  ivy  wreaths  I'll  trade, 

The  crown  of  learned  brows ;  in  pleasant  glade 

I  love  to  view  the  Nymphs  and  Satyrs  dance, 

Far  from  the  common  crowd;  and  then  perchance 

Euterpe  on  her  flute  will  sound  a  strain, 

Or  Polyhymnia  tune  the  lyre  again. 

But  if  you  deem  me  worth  the  lyric  prize, 

With  head  exalted  I  shall  strike  the  skies. 

* 


42 


TO  POSTUMUS 

Eheu  fugaces. — 11.14 

Quickly  the  seasons  glide  by  us, 
Postumus,  Postumus  mine. 

Time  never  stays  for  the  pious ; 

Quickly  the  seasons  glide  by  us, 

Wrinkles  and  age  come  to  try  us", 
Death  but  awaits  our  decline. 

Quickly  the  seasons  glide  by  us, 
Postumus,  Postumus  mine. 

Every  expedient  faileth, 

Pluto  at  length  is  supreme. 

Sacrifice  nothing  availeth, 

Every  expedient  faileth. 

Geryon  his  bondage  bewaileth 

Held  by  the  sad  Stygian  stream. 

Every  expedient  faileth, 

Pluto  at  length  is  supreme. 

None  can  escape  the  dark  water, 

Peasant  nor  monarch  of  men. 
Father,   son,   mother,   and   daughter, 
None  can  escape  the  dark  water, 

43 


TO  POSTUMUS 

Vain  to  shun  war  with  its  slaughter, 

Ocean,  or  pestilent  fen. 
None  can  escape  the  dark  water, 

Peasant  nor  monarch  of  men. 

Villa  and  lands,  we  must  leave  them ; 

Children  and  wife  must  resign, 
Willing  or  no  to  bereave  them. 
Villa  and  lands,  we  must  leave  them, 
Worthier  heirs  shall  receive  them, 

Draining    the    long-treasured    wine. 
Villa  and  lands,  we  must  leave  them; 

Children  and  wife  must  resign. 


44 


A  WINTER  PARTY 

Vides  ut  alta. — 1.9 

O  yonder  see  how  clearly  gleams 

Soracte,  white  with  snow ; 
How  the  fir-trees  stagger  beneath  their  loail 

Bowing  to  let  it  go ; 
And  the  river,  numbed  by  the  piercing  cold. 

At  length  has  ceased  to  flow. 

Dissolve  the  rigor  of  the  frost, 

Bright  let  the  embers  shine, 
With  liberal  hand  heap  on  the  logs, 

And,  Thaliarchus  mine, 
Bring  forth  the  Sabine  amphora 

Of  four-years-mellowed  wine. 

All  else  abandon  to  the  gods ; 

Whatever  time  they  will 
They  drive  the  winds  from  the  tossing  sea 

And  cause  them  to  be  still, 
Till  never  a  lowland  cypress  stirs 

Nor  old  ash  on  the  hill. 


45 


A    WINTER   PARTY 

Pry  not  into  the  morrow's  store ; 

Thy  profit  doth  advance 
By  every  day  that  fate  allots, 

So,  lad,  improve  thy  chance, — 
Ere  stiff  old  age  replace  thy  youth,- 

To  love  and  tread  the  dance. 

Now  in  the  Campus  and  the  squares 

At  the  appointed  hour 
Let  gentle  whispers  oft  be  heard 

From  many  a  twilight  bower, 
Or  the  laugh  of  a  lurking  lass  betray 

The  theft  of  a  ring  or  flower. 


46 


A  PROPER  FEAST 

Natis  in  usum. — 1.27 

Come,  comrades,  cease  your  Thracian  fights 
O'er  cups  designed  for  better  uses, 

For  moderate  Bacchus  ne'er  delights 
In  bloody  quarrels  o'er  his  juices. 

How  far  removed  from  lamps  and  wine 
Should  be  the  Median  dagger  keen  ! 

Hush  drunken  clamor,  friends  of  mine ; 
In  quiet  on  your  elbows  lean. 

.   .   .  You  wish  to  have  me  taste  my  share 
Of  strong  Falernian  with  the  rest?  .   .   . 

Megilla's  brother  must  declare 

First,  by  what  mortal  wound  he's  blest. 

Falters    his    will?  .   .   .   Then    I'll   not   drink  .   . 

Come,  tell  us  by  what  love  you're  swayed, 
What  fire  consumed;   .   .   .   tut,  man,  don't  shrink 

To  own  an  honest  escapade! 

Trust  it  to  safe  ears ;  't  is  no  sin 

But  to  impart  your  sweetheart's  name. — 

Ah !  What  Charybdis  are  you  in, 

Youth  worthy  of  a  nobler  flame ! 

47 


A  PROPER  FEAST 


What  witch,  what  wizard's  potent  brew, 

What  god  can  save  you  this  time,  sirrah? 

Scarce  Pegasus  could  rescue  you, 

Entrapped  by  such  three-fold  Chimera. 


18 


MELPOMENE 

Quern  tu,  Melpomene. — IV. 3 

The  man  thou  hast  inspired,  Melpomene, 

And  viewed  at  hour  of  birth  with  serene  eyes, 
Exalted  by  thy  sovereign  power  shall  be. 

No  Isthmian  games  shall  hail  his  victory, 

No  fleeting  chariot  bear  him  to  the  prize, — 
The  man  thou  hast  inspired,  Melpomene. 

No  conqueror  of  haughty  monarchs  he; 

Not  he,  with  brows  enwreathed  in  victors'  guise, 
Exalted  by  thy  sovereign  power  shall  be. 

Where  woods  are  dense  and  rills  fall  plenteously, 

The  soul  of  song  within  him  glorifies 
The  man  thou  hast  inspired,  Melpomene. 

I  naught  can  envy ;  Rome  has  honored  me. 

My  lays,  by  her  deemed  worthy  of  the  skies, 
Exalted  by  thy  sovereign  power  shall  be. 


49 


MELPOMENE 


I  sing  to  please  thee,  Muse,  and  only  thee 
In  whom  the  master-gift  of  music  lies. 

Exalted  by  thy  sovereign  power  shall  be 
The  man  thou  hast  inspired,  Melpomene. 


50 


"O  VIRGIN  WARDER  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN  PINES" 

Montium  custos. — III. 22 

O  Virgin  Warder  of  the  mountain  pines ! 
On  whom,  in  sorrow,  matrons  not  in  vain 
Thrice   call,   and  Thou  dost  quell  their  every  pain, — 
Three-fold  Thy  God-head  shines ! 

Close  to  my  roof  let  this  Thy  pine  tree  grow, 
On  which,  as  each  revolving  year  is  o'er, 
Gladly  from  some  fierce,  sideward-thrusting  boar 
Blood-offering  I'll  bestow. 


51 


HYMN  FOR  THE  NEPTUNALIA 

Festo  quid  potius. — 111.28 

What  better  do  this  day 
Of  Neptune,  Lyde,  say, 
Than  broach  the  cask 
Of  Caecuban? 
Be  that  your  task, 
Go  quickly  as  you  can. 


Your   housewife's    care   forget; 
The  sun  is  nearly  set. 
Unlike  the  day 
Stock-still  you  are; 
Come,  haste  away, 
Fetch  the  reluctant  jar! 


Green  locks  of  Nereides, 

And  Neptune,  Lord  of  Seas, 

We  celebrate, 

And,  to  the  lyre, 

Latona  great 

And  Cynthia's  darts  of  fire. 

52 


HYMN  FOB  THE  NEPTUNALIA 

To  Her  who  Cniclos  sees, 
And  shining  Cyclades, 
By  yoke-swans  white 
Conveyed  along — 
To  Her  and  Night 
Shall  rise  our  evensong. 


53 


HYMN  FOR  FAUNUS'  DAY 

Faune,  nympharum. — 111.18 

Lover  of  nymphs  that  flee  for  all  thy  love, 

O  Faunus,  through  my  sunny  farm-land  move 

With  step  propitious ;  ill  intention  shun 

Toward  my  lambs ;  so  when  the  year  is  run 

A  savory  kid  may  deck  thine  ancient  shrine, 

And  Love  not  lack  companion-cups  of  wine. 

Sportive  the  herd  through  grassy  meadow  flees, 
The  ox  is  pastured,  and  the  folk  at  ease 

Maintain  thy  winter-festival;  grown  bold, 

The  sheep  fear  not  the  wolf  within  the  fold ; 

Woods  yield  their  boughs  to  grace  thy  holiday; 
And  delvers  gaily  stamp  the  hated  clay. 


54. 


HYMN  TO  DIANA  AND  APOLLO 
Dianam  tencrae. — 1.21 

Sing  of  Diana,  sing,  gentle  maidens ; 

Boys,  of  the  beardless  Cynthius  sing. 
Chant  ye  together  praise  of  Latona, 

Pleasing  to  Jove,  the  omnipotent  king. 

Sing,  O  ye  maidens,  rivers  delightful, 

Tresses  of  woodland  sweet  to  your  queen, 

Groves  Erymanthian,  forests  of  Gragus, 
Dells  on  the  slope  of  Algidus  green. 

Boys,  sing  of  Tempe,  tell  of  its  praises ; 

Delos,  the  birth-place  of  Phoebus,  admire; 
Godlike  his  shoulder  graced  with  the  quiver, 

Sweet  the  fraternal  gift  of  the  lyre. 

Keep  from  the  folk  and  Caesar  Imperial 

War's  depredation,  famine,  and  pest ; 

Turn  them  instead  on   the  Britons   and  Persians ; 
Child  of  Latona,  hear  our  request ! 


55 


FONTINALIA 
0  fons  Bandusiae. — III. 13 

Bandusian  fountain !  worthy  of  sweet  wine 

Nor  lacking  garlands  strewn,  thy  glassy  stream; 
To-morrow  from  the  frolic  herd  I  deem 
The  tenderest  kid  of  any  shall  be  thine. 

His  pulsing  blood  shall  tinge  thy  crystalline 

Cold  water,  though  by  budding  front  he  seem 
Destined  to  wax  in  love  and  war  supreme : 
But  vain  his  destiny.     To  weary  kine 

And  wandering  flocks  thy  runnel,  icy  cool, 

Gives  grateful  rest  when  flaming  Sirius  reigns. 
Among  the  founts  in  noble  numbers  known 

Thou  too  shalt  be  exalted,  while  my  strains 
Extol  the  rills,  from  ledges  ilex-grown, 
That  murmuring  fill  thy  pure  pellucid  pool. 


56 


THE  POET'S  PRAYER 
Quid  dedication. — 1.31 

What  seeks  the  bard  inspired 
From  Phoebus  on  the  founding  of  the  shrine? 

What  is  the  gift  desired 
As  from  the  sacred  cup  he  pours  the  wine? 

He  asks  for  no  rich  grain 
Gathered  in  far  Sardinia's  fertile  fields ; 

From  scorched  Calabrian  plain 
No  flocks;  no  gold  nor  tusks  that  India  yields. 

Unmeant  for  him  he  deems 
Those  lands  which  silent  Liris  gnaws  away 

With  smoothly-sliding  streams. 
As  for  Calenian  vines,  let  those  who  may 

Prune  them  with  crooked  blade; 
Let   wealthy   merchants   drain   from   cups   of  gold 

Wine  of  the  Syrian  trade, — 
Gods  willing,  thrice  a  year  in  unscathed  hold 

Brought  from  the  Atlantic  sea. 
These  riches  tempt  me  not ;  I  but  request 

Olives   and  chicory, 
And  tender  mallows,  easy  to  digest. 

57 


THE  POET'S  PRAYER 

Latona-born,  I  pray 
That  with  my  lot  I  may  be  satisfied ; 
May  mind  and  vigor  stay, 

And  to  my  age  be  not  the  lyre  denied. 

* 


58 


* 


HORACE'S  DIET 


'"Me  pascunt  olivae, 
Me  cichorea  levesque  malvae."— 1.31 


0  Quintus  Horatius !    O  can  it  be  true 

That  you  spurned  the  Falernian  flagon, 

And  quaffed,  in  its  place,  this  chicory  brew, 
Refusing  to  get  a  good  jag  on? 

If  for  dinner,  instead  of  a  New  England  boiled, 
You  preferred  but  an  olive  or  mallow, 

I'm  surprised  your  digestion  so  long  was  unspoiled, 
And  your  verses  not  morbid  or  shallow. 

So,  Horace,  if  feeding  on  fodder  like  this 
You  fancied  that  you  were  in  clover, 

I'll  never  blame  Pyrrha  for  shunning  your  kiss, 
Or  Chloe  for  throwing  you  over. 


59 


ON  A  DISASTER  IN  PLASTER 

"Non  ebur  neque  aureum 

Mea  renidet  in  domo  lacunar."— 11.18 

"Nor  ivory,  nor  golden-inlaid  beams 

Adorn  my  roof,"  wrote  Horace  quite  compactly. 
I  used  to  think  this  strange ;  but  now  it  seems 

My  sentiments  exactly. 

For  think !  if  while  he  labored  on  an  ode 

About  a  rose,  carnation,  or  geranium, 
This  gold  and  ivory,  an  awful  load, 

Had  crashed  upon  his  cranium ! 

Though  Pliny  too  had  often  (as  we've  read) 

Brought   down   the   house,   what  would   have   been   his 
feeling, 
While  answering  Baebius,  had  he  instead 

Brought  down  a  piece  of  ceiling? 

A  pillow-parasol  old  Pliny  tried 

When  lava  showers  imperiled  his  position. 

When  next  I  seek  the  class-room,  I'll  have  tied 
Upon  my  head  a  cushion. 


60 


THE  CAMPAIGNER 
Icci,  heath. — 1.29 

O  Dicky,  is  it  only  spite 

And  hope  of  Spanish  plunder? 
Or  are  you  spoiling  for  a  fight 
With  those  bewhiskered  sons  of  might, 

The  dauntless  Dons,  I  wonder? 

Caramba!  but  some  heads  will  ache 
When  you  consume  salt-petre ! 
You'll  shoot  some  Dago  dude  and  take — 
To  starch  your  cuffs  and  cocktails  make- 
His  dusky  Senorita. 

Or  else,  for  valet,  you'll  bring  home 

Some  coffee-colored  laddie, 
Well  trained  to  spread  the  fleecy  foam, 
To  wield  the  strop,  to  ply  the  comb, 
By  his  Castilian  daddy. 

Well,  well,  what  next?  what  can't  be  true, 

If  you,  who'd  grown  so  steady, 
Have  caught  the  Cuban  fever,  too, 
And  start,  all  fired  for  daring-do, 
Rough-Ridering  with  Teddy ; 

61 


THE  CAMPAIGNER 

If  you,  a  settled,  sober  Grad., 

Have  hocked  your  KENT  and  STORY, 
Your  BLACKSTONE— lately  all  your  fad— 
To  buy  your  kit,  and  khaki-clad 

Are  off  for  dust  and  glory. 


62 


THE  DEATH  OF  CLEOPATRA 

Nunc  est  bibendum. — 1.37 

Ho !  comrades,  let  us  revel,  now  dance  with  nimble  feet, 
Come,  spread  the  couches  of  the  gods  with  Salian  dainties 

sweet ; 
But  yesterday  't  were  ill  conceived  the  long-stored  wine  to 

drain 
While  Capitol  and  Empire  still  were  menaced  by  the  train 
Of  dissolute  adventurers  who  follow  Egypt's  queen, 
Drunk  with  the  vintage  of  success  and  blinded  by  her  spleen. 
But  her  madness  was  diminished,  when  from  out  the  fire  and 

wrack 
Of  all  her  myriad  galleys,  scarce  a  single  ship  came  back. 
When  Caesar  from  the  Italian  shore  in  quick  pursuit  had  sped, 
Her  senses,  dulled  by  fumes  of  wine,  were  overcome  by  dread. 
For  as  upon  the  dove  swoops  down  the  falcon  from  the  air, 
Or  as  on  Haemon's  snowy  plain  the  huntsman  bags  the  hare, 
So  Caesar  in  his  galleys  to  the  fatal  queen  gave  chase, 
To  cast  in  chains  and  bear  her  back  his  captive  train  to  grace. 
But  destined  for  a  nobler  end  she  showed  no  woman's  fear 
Of  swords,  nor  did  she  take  to  ship  and  for  a  refuge  steer ; 
But  all  serene,  she  gazed  upon  her  palace  lying  low, 
And  dared  to  seek  the  venom  from  the  serpent's  angry  blow. 
She  was  no  humble  woman,  who  could  death  so  firmly  brave, 
And  scorn  to  grace  a  triumph  fit  for  any  common  slave. 

63 


ON  TRANSLATING  THE  FOREGOING 

I  am  trying,  Egypt,  trying 

To  translate  as  Horace  wrote. 
In  the  dark,  Plutonian  shadows 

Mingled  words  and  phrases  float ; 
But  I  cannot  catch  the  spirit 

Any  more  than  find  a  rhyme ; 
Might  as  well  attempt  a  paean 

On  the  battle  of  Blenheim. 

For  though  Horace  may  have  gloried 

In  thine  empire's  tragic  fall, 
Politics  of  Flaccus'  era 

Do  not  interest  me  at  all. 
Though  I'd  gladly  sing  of  Pyrrha, 

Or  of  fawnlike  Chloe  tell, 
When  it  comes  to  odes  like  this  one, 

Cleopatra !  Rome !  farewell ! 


* 


64 


SIMPLICITY 

Persicos   odi. — 1.38 

Hateful,  Page,  to  me  is  the  pomp  of  Persia ; 
Garlands  even,  plaited  with  bast,  displease  me; 
Cease  then  seeking  places  wherein  the  roses 
Linger  late-blooming. 

Naught  I  will  thou  add  to  the  simple  myrtle, 
Vainly  toilsome;  neither  for  thee,  my  servant, 
Myrtles  are  unfitting,  or  me  close-shaded, 
Quaffing  the  vine- juice. 


65 


MY  SABINE  FARM 

Laudabunt  alii. — 1.7 

Some  people  talk  about  "Noo  Yo'k"; 

Of  Cleveland  many  ne'er  have  clone; 
They  sing  galore  of  Baltimore, 

Chicago,  Pittsburgh,  Washington. 

Others  unasked  their  wit  have  tasked 
To  sound  unending  praise  of  Boston — 

Of  bean-vines  found  for  miles  around 
And  crooked  streets  that  I  get  lost  on. 

Give  me  no  jar  of  truck  or  car, 
No  city  smoke  and  noise  of  mills  ; 

Rather  the  slow  Connecticut's  flow 
And  sunny  orchards  on  the  hills. 

There  like  the  haze  of  summer  days 
Before  the  wind  flee  care  and  sorrow. 

In  sure  content  each  day  is  spent, 

Unheeding  what  may  come  to-morrow. 


66 


IN  DEEP  WATER 

Quis  mult  a  gracilis. — 1.5 

What  slim  youth  in  shady  grotto 
Filled  with  sweet  enticing  otto 

From  his  bouquet, 
Woos  thee,  fickle  Pyrrha,  sotto 

Voce? 

Dress  thy  yellow  locks !     His  error 
He  will  soon  in  sudden  terror 

Start  bewailing, 
Tossed  by  seas  that  late  seemed  fairer 

Sailing. 

Now  he  deems  thee  gold  the  purest, 
Calls  thee  tenderest,  demurest — 

Ignoramus ! 
But  can  one  whom  thou  allurest 

Blame  us? 

Yes,  a  robe  I'm  consecrating 
My  escape  commemorating — 

Was  I  iron 
To  resist  thee,  captivating 

Siren ! 


67 


TO  CHLOE 

A   BALLAD   OF   CLASS-ROOM    PRONUNCIATIONS 

The  snow  descends  on  hills  and  leas, 

But  radiators  brightly  glowing 
Dispel  all  fear  of  chill  Boreas, 

However  hard  the  wind  is  blowing. 
While  old  Aeolus  wafts  the  snow, 
I'll  sit  me  down  and  write  to  Chloe. 

With  Horace  Chloe  was  all  the  rage, 
He  straightway  jilted  every  other, 

Leuconoe,  Phyllis,  and  Lalage, 

For  this  "lost   fawn   that  seeks   its   mother;" 

Which  was  his  artful  way,  I  fear, 

Of  calling  Chloe  his  little  dear. 

'Tis  true  I  never  knew  this  Chloe, 

But  Mr.  Q.  H.  Flaccus  knew  her; 

She  handed  him  the  mitten,  so 

He  straightway  wrote  some  poems  to  her. 

Well,  let  me  see,  I'll  head  my  verse : 
"To  one  more  charming  far  than  Circe." 


68 


TO   CHLOE 

"It  is  for  you  my  spirit  gasps, 

0  loveliest  of  lovely  gender; 

I  willingly  would  breast  Hydaspes, 

If  I  might  be  your  true  defender. 
I  long  for  you,  to  be  precise, 
As  Orpheus  yearned  for  Eurydice. 

"And  you  will  not  refuse,  I  hope 

To  send  me  just  as  many  kisses, 

As  that  old  dame  called  Penelope 

Bestowed  upon  returned  Ulysses 

Or  Cupid,  whom  all  lovers  like, 

Delivered  to  his  sweetheart,  Psyche. 

"Within  affection's  warmest  glow 

1  write  these  heartfelt  lines  to  place  us, 
And  send  them  to  you,  darling  Chloe, 

By  kindness  of  my  friend,  Pegasus. 
O  may  love's  bond  as  firm  attach  us, 
As  Ariadne  was  to  Bacchus." 


69 


DE  CONSOLATIONE 
Ad  Q.  H.  F. 

Quintus,  the  fate  you  dreaded  worst 

Has  long  been  yours ; 
A  tribe  you  would  have  held  accurst, 

As  mostly  bores, — 
We  teachers, — seized  you  from  the  first. 
Lean  wits  for  ages  in  the  schools 

With  you  were  fattened. 
Professors  dam  your  flow  with  rules ; 
Critics  and  editorial  ghouls 
Still  tear  you  with  scholastic  tools ; 
Full  fifty-seven  brands  of  fools 

On  you  have  battened. 

Jones  counts,  and  finds  your  lady-loves 

By  far  too  many. 
Brown  writes  his  learned  tome,  and  proves 

You  hadn't  any ! 
Noakes  notices  their  too  transparent  names 

Are  always  Greek. 
While  for  grande  passion  Stoakes,  expertus,  claims 

You're  still  to  seek! 
Poor  Cinara,  whose  portrait  Sir  T.  Martin 

70 


DE  CONSOLATIONE 

Likes  to  believe  you  put  your  very  heart  in, — 
E'en  Cinara  to  the  great  Professor  Smith 
Is  all  but  myth ! 

Then  as  for  Dr.  Verrall  and  his  dreams, — 

Beitrage-magic ! 
To  him  your  very  lightest  lyric  seems 

Of  import  tragic. 
Melpomene,  who  our  innocence  supposes 
Was  not  yet  conscious  of  her  awful  mission, 
Lurks  full  of  gloom,  it  seems,  beneath  your  wine-and-roses, 

And  purple  cushion ! 
That  gentle  mirth,  that  wit  at  which  we  smile, 

Were  meant  to  harrow 
(Had  we  but  sense  to  penetrate  your  guile) 
Our  feelings  for  one  d-doomed  Licinius  Varro. 
Mehercule!  no  worse  a  Monstr'-horrend'-ingcns-whats-it-icus 
Was  e'er  evolved  from  any  other  Apparatus  Criticus ! 

Long-suffering  Poet !  one  stroke  more 
Thy  stars  malign  have  kept  in  store, 

That  now  must  fall: 
A  great  Historian  takes  the  floor 

Who  knows  it  all ! 
To  him  your  works  of  during  brass, 
Your  curiosa  felicitas, 
Your  phrases  that  so  long  did  pass 

For  purest  classic, 
Are  parts  of  one  deep-laid  design 

71 


DE  CONSOLATIONE 

To  BOOM  THE  TRADE  IN  NATIVE  WINE 

Falernian,  Formian,  Prsenestine, 
Calenian,  Massic ! ! 

But  don't  despair:  such  things  are  sent 

(Unpleasant  very!) 
To  prove  your  high-piled  monument 

Perennius  aere. 
So  sane  and  clear  your  eyes  that  saw 

Whatever  passes, 
They  must  have  read  this  simple  law 

That  strong  as  brass  is : 
Not  he  who  'scaped  from  beak  and  claw, — 
The  Bentley-lion's  heavy  paw, — 
The  tiger-Peerlkamp's  rending  jaw, — 
Need  break  his  rest  with  fear  and  awe, 
When  o'er  his  head  with  weird  he-haw 

Stamp  the  wild  asses. 


72 


FLACCUS  DIVERSIFIED 

OB, 

Every  Poet  His  Own  Horace 

"He  useth  to  indite  but  Common  Places — quasi  Communes 
Locos — this  Barde  of  ours :  wherefore  it  Falleth  oute  that 
what  Poet  soever  looketh  into  Flaccus  his  boke  heareth  but 
his  own  Argument  sette  to  his  own  proper  Musick." 

— Meason:    Anatomic  of  Pocticks,  §23 


TO  FRANKLIN  P.  ADAMS 

The  critics  on  our  antics  look 

With  eyes  so  cold  and  solemn ; 

O  find  a  refuge  for  our  book 
In  your  congenial  column ! 

Yea,  Loiterer  at  the  Sacred  Fount, 
Give  the  Glad  Hand,  by  Bacchus ! 

And  charge  the  item :  "On  account 
Of  my  old  friend,  Q.  Flaccus." 


<  j 


DONAREM  PATERAS 
IV.8 

Englished  by  Robert  Browning 

Flaccus  the  poet,  from  the  ilex  groves 
That  clothe  the  cool  Digentias  dexter  side — 
(See  Life,  by  Wickham,  three-and-thirtieth  page) — 
And  the  sure  silence  of  his  field's  much  grass, 
To  Censorinus,  best  of  comrades,  these: 

'Thinketh  he'd  suit  each  several  comrade's  taste, 

'Thinketh  he'd  give  them  sacrificial  bowls 

All  lapis,  or  enwrought  of  Favrile  glass, 

(Although,  God  wot!     I  know  not  what  that  is!) 

And  suchlike  bric-a-brac,  wherewith  we  use 

To  burden  bridal  couples  to  their  dole ; 

And  bronzes — mark  you  that,  pure  bronzes,  man! 

Ripe-orange  patined,  copper's  best  alloy, 

No  piddling  pewter,  two  per  cent,  of  tin ; 

And  triple-straddling  tripods,  valor's  prize, 

Contested  by  the  Hellenes,  tetyx-topped ; — 

Flower-o'-the  plum! 

This  is  as  easy  as  twiddle-your-thumb! 

Nor  would'st  thou  have  the  worst  of  these  my  gifts, 
My  Censorinus ! — 'meaneth  to  say,  of  course, 

76 


DONABEM  PATERAS 

I'd  give  them,  had  I  store  of  such  to  give, — 
Chefs-d'oeuvre  Parrhasian,   Scopian  handiwork, 
(This  stone's,  and  that  the  glittering  pigment's  lord, 
One  sculping  mortal's  and  one  limning  gods.) 
Flower-o'-the  thyme! 
This  is  too  easy:  I  think  Til  try  rhyme. 

But  seeing  to  you  there  no  lack  is 

Of  such,  you'll  not  hope  that  your  Flaccus 

Will  send  you  bijouterie;  moreover, 

'Tis  poems  you  rather  had  pore  over; 

'Tis  poems  I  have  in  satiety, 

And  can  tell  their  worth  to  society : 

Not  marbles  nor  state-graven  statues; 

(And  what  you  will  make  out  of  that  choose) 

Through  which  our  brave  general's  spirit 

(Praise  a  hero:  be  sure  he  will  hear  it!) 

Returns  to  this  life  for  a  season, — 

Not  the  backward  path  that  he  flees  on, 

Dire  Hannibal,  threat'nings  all  ended, — 

Nor  Carthage,  forever  delend'ed, — 

More  clearly  reveals  by  its  blazes 

The  conquering  hero's  just  praises, 

Who  returned  from  his  African  triumph 

So  poor  that  no  carper  could  cry:     "Humph! 

His  reason  for  fighting's  the  plainest,' 

(So  poor!  but  then  be-Africanused!) 

Than  Muses  Calabrian  show  'em ; 


77 


» 


DONAREM  PATERAS 

That's  Ennius ;  go  read  his  poem. 

Flower-o'-the  bay! 

What's  to  prevent  me  from  rhyming  all  day? 

Were  letters  silent  of  thy  deeds  well  done, 

Thou  hadst  no  guerdon.     What  were  Mar's  son 

And  Ilia's,  if  that  Silence  envious 

Might  stand  athwart  the  worth  of  Romulus? 

Thus  Aeacus  from  Stygian  billows  wrung 

By  potency  of  bards,  their  favor,  tongue, 

Is  consecrate  the  Happy  Isles  among. 

The  wight  laud-worthy  hath  the  Muse  denied 

To  die ;  the  Muse  awards  him  Heaven  beside. 

'Tis  thus  at  Jove's  high  feast,  his  labor  crowned, 

The  tireless  hero  Hercules  is  found ; 

And  Tyndareus'  progeny,  the  lucent  stars, 

Save  shattered  barks  from  out  the  billows'  wars ; 

With  wreathed  brow  whereon  the  vine- leaf  clings, 

Liber  our  hope  to  happy  issue  brings. 

Flower-o  '-the-vine  ! 

Is  some  of  that  Browning's  or  all  of  it  mine? 


78 


VITAS  HINNULEO 
1.23 

Indited  by  Samuel  Johnson,  Esq. 

With  heart  horrescent  and  aversive  Air, 

My  amorous  suit  evites  the  ingenuous  Fair, — 

A  timid  offspring  of  the  cervine  kind, 

Who  seeks  her  Dam  of  equi-timorous  mind ; 

She  devious  quests  o'er  elevated  ways ; 

Each  gust  affrights  her  and  each  breath  affrays. 

If  vernal  Zephyrs  on  the  branches  light 
And  shake  the  leaves  (in  Dr.  Bentley's  spite)  ; 
If  Briars  recumbrous  on  their  native  heath 
Stir  with  lacertian  movement  underneath ; 
The  flames  of  terror  in  her  bosom  burn, 
And  nether  members  pulsate  in  their  turn. 

And  yet  no  tigrine  nature  e'er  was  mine, 

No  shore  Gaetulian  reared  me  leonine. 

I  woo  thee,  not  insatiate  of  gore, 

Nor  long  to  view  thy  corse  ensanguined  o'er. 

Seek  not  the  Maternal  Source  of  life  again, 

Nor  still  reluct  t'approve  the  eager  Swain. 


79 


VIXI  PUELLIS 
111.26 

Lilted  by   Algernon   Charles   Swinburne 

Love,  I  have  lived  of  late  for  these  thy  handmaids  not  all 

unmeet. 
Yea,  I  have  warred  thy  war,  nor  bitten  the  bitter  bread  of 

defeat. 
Cometh  war-weariness  now  and  the  woful  wane  of  wild  desire, 
Cometh  the  leaving  of  arms,  and  the  last  long  lingering  lift 

of  the  lyre. 

Fair  is  thy  fane,  Aphrodite,  thou  fairest  fruit  of  the  furrow- 
less  sea! 

Yea,  and  the  left  wall  of  it  shall  hold  henceforth  the  weapons 
of  me: 

Torches  of  fresh-flown  flame,  and  jimmies  that  jam,  and  the 
bent  bow's  bane, 

On  lintels  that  lower  with  locks  shall  prove  their  prowess 
never  again. 

Goddess,  who  boldest  Cyprian  realms  !  thou  brine-born  Mother 
of  Love! 

80 


VI XI   PU ELLIS 

Whose  alone  are  the  Memphian  fields  and  the  snowless  acres 

thereof ! 
Queen,  and  the  flower  of  the  foam !  thou  flicker  of  flames 

that  flash ! 
Lift  up  thy  scourge  on  the  scornful  Chloe  and  lessen  her  pride 

with  thy  lash ! 


81 


CAELO  SUPINAS 
111.23 

In  the  manner  of  Robert  Herrick 

Whenas  the  New  Moone  sho's  her  light, 

If  thou  dost  lift  thy  hands  aright 

(Rusticall  Phidyle)    to  Heav'n's   dome, 

And  of  thine  increase  still  spar'st  some 

For  the  high  gods  ('t  needs  not  be  bigge: 

A  wisp  of  corne,  a  sucking  Pigge, 

Or  but  a  grane  of  Franckynsense), 

Then  all  thy  plagues  theyle  banish  hence. 

The  Sirrock-blast  from  Africa 

Wo'd  not  thy  fertile  Vine  dismay; 

Thy  croppe  won't  rust,  nor  younglings   fear 

The  evill  apple-season  o'  th'  yeere. 

For  those  rich  victims  that  still  wait 

(Tho'  vow'd)    on  Algidus  candidate, 

Or  fatte  in  Alban  pastures  waxe, 

Will  dye  (not  thine  but)   the  pontiff's  axe. 

Thy  tiny  gods  to  supplicate 

Befits  no  such  lautitious  cate; 

For  rosemarie  wreathes  &  mirtle  boughs 

Co'd  better  suite  thy  modest  vows ; 

82 


CAELO  SUPINAS 

I,  holy  meale  &  crackling  grane 
Wo'd  soothe  the  angry  Lar.     In  vain 
A  costlier  Gift  thou'd'st  seek  to  bring: 
Pure  hands  are  th'  welcomest  offering. 
These  sooner  make  thy  cause  well  wonne 
Than  rich  importunation. 


83 


SCRIBERIS  VARIO 
1.6 

To  M.  Vipsanius  Agrippa 
By  R.  K.,  Author  of  Bobbs:  and  Other  Irreverences 

If  it's  pr'ises  that  you'd  like, 

Mister  Gripps, 
Varius  is  the  bird  to  strike 

For  them,  Gripps. 
'E'll  cough  up  'Omeric  notes 
About  your  deeds  with  'orse  or  boats. 
S'ikes !  your  Tommies  harn't  no  goats, 

Hare  they,  Gripps? 


I  can't  write  no  bloody  hode 

For  you,  Gripps. 
Can't  tell  wot  I  'aven't  knowed, 

Can  I,  Gripps? 
Like  them  bloomin'  classic  guys, 
Pelides  and  Ulix-eyes ; — 
You're  a  cut  above  my  size, 
Haren't  you,  Gripps? 


84 


SCRIBE  BIS    VABIO 

Wisht  I  could  spout  such  'ot  stuff 

About  you,  Gripps. 
Reckon  I  'aven't  sand  enough, — 

Not  like  Gripps! 
And  my  Muse,  says  she  (bad  cess!) 
"That  there's  not  your  style,  I  guess ; 
Don't  you  make  no  pukkah  mess 

Out  o'  Gripps." 

Beer  and  rookies,  them's  my  l'y — 

(Likewise  Gripps')  — 
Quarreling  gals  and  such  as  th'y ; 

Haren't  they,  Gripps? 
That's  the  stuff  brings  in  the  chink 
And  I'll  stick  to  that  I  think, 
Woozely  drunk,  or  out  o'  clink, 

Won't  I,  Gripps? 

CHOEUS 

Then  'ere's  to  Vipsy-Wipsy,  little  Gripps, 

Gripps,  Gripps ! 
We  love  him  str'ight  or  tipsy,  little  Gripps, 

Gripps,  Gripps ! 
O!  we  knows  it  bloomin'  well, 
His  grite  fime  no  tongue  can  tell ; 
But  we'll  fight  for  him  to ! 

Won't  we  Gripps ! 


85 


NON  US1TATA 
11.20 

Which  Chaucer  thinketh  grete  merveille. 

With  winges  freshe  and  stronge  I  tak  my  weye 
Thurgh  clere  heven,  ne  lenger  nill  I  staye 
On  erthe  for  to  dwelle  in  cityes  grete; 
Sone  I  schal  flee  the  presse,  I  yow  bihete. 
But  I,  Maecenas,  I  whom  thou  dost  calle 
A  pore  man  born,  shal  never  deye  at  alle, 
Ne  rest  confined  bi  the  Stygian  wawes. 

For,  lo,  my  toon  been  chaunged  into  clawes, 
And  smale  scales  on  my  legges  bothe 
Beginnen  for  to  growe,  I  tell  yow  sothe ; 
The  white  down  out-sterteth  fro  my  barme, 
And  plumes  been  engendred  on  eche  arme; 
My  bak  and  sides  eek  with  fethres  hid — 
Loke,  am  I  nat  a  veray  parfit  brid ! 
Anon  like  Icarus  on-lofte  I  sore 
To  seigh  the  grete  see  y-clept  Bosphore, 
And  like  a  snow-whyt  swan  with  swete  stevene 
I  flee  to  Syrtes  heigh  along  the  hevene ; 
To  Colchus,  Spayne,  and  many  landes  mo, 
And  eek  to  reaumes  of  the  north  I  go 
And  drink  the  Rhone,  yif  that  there  nis  na  wine. 

Wherefore,  when  I  departe,  leve  to  pyne ; 

86 


* 


NON  U  SI  TAT  A 

Noon  needeth  sorwen  at  my  sepulture, 

Ne  singen  diriges  to  my  soultis  cure, 

Ne  seyen  messe  upon  an  holi-daye 

As  monkes  doon  for  love  or  els  for  paye, 

Swich  wo  and  moorning  nis  nat  worth  a  flye, — 

I  shal  for  ever  sore  on  winges  hye. 

•  •••••••* 

Thus  seyth  Orace,  and  nevere  have  I  founde 
Within  his  book  that  yit  he  cam  to  grounde. 


87 


O  NAVIS 

1.14 

Navigated  by  W.   E.   Henley 

Whither,  O  Ship,  away? 

Forth  to  the  plangent,  immitigable  billows 

Wilt  thou  fare  once  more? 

To  port!  To  port!  Lo! 

How  nude  thy  side  of  oarage,  how  thy  mast 

Wind-worn,  worm-riddled,  mouldy  with  memories, 

Groans  to  the  swift  blasts  African. 

And  all  thy  yards  with  clang  on  clang  resound. 

Nor  without  cables  can  thy  keel  endure 

This  miserable  welter  and  wash, 

The  hugger-mugger  of  waves. 

(Ocean!     O  Ocean  of  Politics!     Ocean  of  Pulls!) 

Thou  hast  no  sails  yet  undisintegrated, 

Nor  Powers  on  whom  to  call,  o'er-whelmed  with  ills, 

Child  of  the  Pontic  Pine, 

Daughter  of  noble  wood-lands, 

Thy  boasts  are  vain; 

The  mariner  trusts  thee  not ; 

Beware,  unless  thou  owest  sport 

To  all  the  winds  of  Heaven. 

Thou  my  anguishable  care 

88 


O  NAVIS 

In  the  dreary,  ineffectual  Yesterdays 
Now  my  darling  anxiety : 
Beware  lest  Death,  the  junk-man, 
Catch  thee  amid  the  sapphirine  isles, 
And  strew  thee  in  gobbets  o'er 
The  unravined,  imperturbable  sea. 


89 


EHEU  FUGACES 
11.14 

As  it  sounded  to  Thomas  Gray 

Our  Fleeting  Years,  alas !  glide  fast  away. 

Gray,  wrinkled  Age  invades  with  every  breath; 
Nor  Pious  Vows  can  interpose  delay, 

And  even  Worth  must  yield  the  Palm  to  Death. 

Can  reeking  Fane  or  oft-recurring  Rite 

Avail  thee,  Friend,  in  thy  predestined  hour, 

When  all  the  monstrous  brood  of  ancient  Night 
Alike  must  own  the  illacrymable  Power? 

Full  many  a  child  of  the  all-bounteous  earth 

O'er  Lethe's  dark,  unfathomed  wave  has  passed ; 

Nor  pride  of  Power  avails,  nor  Royal  Birth ; 

The  weary  Ploughman  thither  plods  at  last. 

In  vain  we  shun  the  blood-stained  work  of  War; 

In  vain  th'  infuriate  Ocean's  angry  moan ; 
In  vain  from  Autumn's  heat  we  flee  afar; 

For  Pestilence  will  mark  us  for  her  own. 


90 


EHEU  FUG ACES 

To  view  that  sullen  flood  none  may  refuse, 

Where  spirits  unblest  will  fright  thy  wondering  gaze, 
Where  Justice  still  her  righteous  doom  pursues, 

And  keeps  the  awful  tenor  of  her  ways. 

No  more  thy  child  shall  prattle  at  thy  knees, 
Nor  busy  house-wife  wait  thy  long  return. 

Thy  land,  thy  house,  thou  'It  leave ;  and  of  thy  trees 
Naught  but  the  hated  cypress  deck  thy  urn. 

A  worthier  heir  shall  spill  thy  treasured  wine 

That  Luxury's  self  had  envied  thee  to  taste; 

Then  Wealth  shall  all  her  hoarded  hopes  resign, 
And  Avarice  sadly  yield  the  realm  to  Waste. 


91 


VITAS  HINNULEO 

1.23 

Done  by  Mr.  William  Wordswoi  th 

I  met  a  little  Roman  maid ; 

She  was  just  sixteen  (she  said), 
And  O !  but  she  was  sore  afraid, 

And  hung  her  modest  head. 

A  little  fawn,  you  would  have  vowed, 
That  sought  her  mother's  side, 

And  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 
Upon  the  mountain  wide. 

Whene'er  the  little  lizards  stirred, 
She  started  in  her  fear; 

In  every  rustling  bush  she  heard 
Some  awful  monster  near. 

"I'm  not  a  lion ;  fear  not  so ; 

Seek  not  your  timid  dam". — 


92 


VITAS  HINNULEO 

But  Chloe  was  afraid,  and  0 ! 
She  knows  not  what  I  am : 

A  creature  quite  too  bright  and  good 
To  be  so  much  misunderstood. 


93 


IN  MEMORIAM 

Quintilius  Varus 
1.24 

By  Alfred  Tennyson 

May  grief's  excess  work  aught  of  wrong 
To  one  so  dear  as  him  we  mourn? 
O  music,  from  some  Higher  Bourne 

Attune  our  woe  to  lyre  and  song! 

And  so  eternal  slumbers  press 

Our  brother  down :  and  when  shall  we 
Among  mankind  his  equal  see 

In  justice,  honor,  truthfulness? 

By  many  wailed,  by  thee  the  most, 

0  Vergil !     Vain  thy  pious  prayer. 
What  erst  they  trusted  to  thy  care, 

The  gods  recall,  and  it  is  lost. 

What  though  with  more  than  Orphic  strain 

Thy   lyre    should   charm   the   listening   trees? 
May  spirit  hark  to  words  like  these, 

Or  fill  the  empty  form  again? 


9t 


IN   ME  MORI  AM 


In  vain.     To  that  austere  abode 

Relentless  Fate  his  soul  hath  driven, 
Deaf  to  our  prayers.    May  only  Heaven 

Grant  patience  to  endure  thy  load ! 


95 


EPISTLE  TO  SEPTIMIUS 

Septimi,  Gadis. — II.6 

As  writ  by  Mr.  Alexander  Pope,  Esqr. 

Awake !  Septimius,  to  my  strain  attend : 
Friendship  my  theme,  I  sing  to  thee  a  friend. 
That  such  thou  art,  thy  fond  attendance  proves 
Where'er  on  earth  my  errant  foot-step  roves. 
To  Cadiz  if  I  take  my  dangerous  way 
And  tribes  Cantabrian,  hostile  to  our  sway; 
Or  if  the  barbarous  Syrtes  I  explore 
Where  seething  waves  assail  the  Afric  shore : 
Not  these  can  daunt,  nor  those  subdue  thy  mind, 
Nor  seas  divide  the  hearts  that  Heaven  joined. 
O  grant,  ye  Powers,  that  still  my  wand'rings  guide, 
And  this  the  best  of  gifts — a  friend — supplied: 
When  draws  this  mortal  journey  to  its  close, 
May  we  in  Tibur  find  a  sweet  repose ! 
Within  the  walls  an  Argive  wanderer  piled, 
May  we  forget  the  painful  roads  we  toiled ! 
With  warfare  wasted,  sickened  by  the  sea, 
Be  ours  the  goal  for  which  we  fondly  pray ! 
Some  further  limit  for  my  travel's  end, 
If  Fate  decree  (who  can  with  Fate  contend?) 
That  land  I'll  seek  where  once  Phalanthus  came, 

96 


EPISTLE   TO  SEPTIMIUS 

Where  Spartans  dwell  beside  Galaesus'  stream. 
Harmonious  through  the  plain  its  currents  glide, 
Sweet  to  the  flocks  that  pasture  by  its  side. 
No  other  flocks  more  feel  a  shepherd's  care, 
No  other  shepherds  richer  fleeces  shear. 
(Thrice-happy  swains!  if  they  their  riches  knew! 
To  skin  their  flocks,  and  then  to  fleece  them  too !) 
No  other  nook  on  earth  with  this  can  vie 
To  win  the  poet's  heart  and  please  his  eye. 
No  more  Hymettus  boasts  her  waxen  store ; 
Venafrum's  olives  are  her  pride  no  more. 
For  here  kind  Jove  a  rich  abundance  brings, 
The  winter  softens,  and  delays  the  springs. 
And  blest  by  Bacchus,  Aulon's  fertile  field 
Envies  no  grapes  Falernian  vineyards  yield. 
Sure  'tis  for  us  those  happy  towers  arise 
To  soothe  our  breasts  and  glad  our  weary  eyes. 
And  there  the  poet  with  the  poet's  friend 
Awaits  at  last  the  final  journey's  end. 
Thy  grateful  task  to  ease  the  laboring  breath, 
To  still  his  fears  and  close  his  eyes  in  death, 
On  his  warm  ashes  drop  the  meed  of  tears, 
And  waft  his  spirit  to  those  brighter  spheres. 


97 


TO  DELLIUS 

Aequam  memento. — II. 3 

Rubaiyated  by  Edward  Fitzgerald 

This  shifting  bubble  sages  call  thy  soul 
Wilt  thou  not  keep  it,  Friend,  in  firm  control? 
Nor  Joy  nor  Grief  o'er-throws  his  level  mind 
Who  learns  the  Wisdom  hidden  in  the  Bowl. 

Whether  thou  pass  thy  gloomy  days  in  pain, 
Or  fling  the  Balm-of-life  abroad  like  rain, 
Alike  the  bitter  or  the  sparkling  Cup 
Thou  quafF'st — to  sleep  and  wake  no  more  again. 

I  sometimes  think  that  never  flows  the  Wine 
So  red,  as  'neath  the  Poplar  and  the  Pine. 
Wer't  not  a  shame?     O  Friend,  wer't  not  a  shame, 
If  they  in  vain  their  pleasing  shade  combine? 

And  to  what  end,  think'st  thou,  this  rivulet 
Doth  in  its  winding  Channel  fume  and  fret? 
O  pluck  To-day !  and  make  no  vain  pursuit 
Of  This  and  That,  which  thou  may'st  never  get. 

98 


TO  DELL1US 

The  Wine,  the  Perfume,  and  the  lovely  Rose 
That  buds  at  dawn  and  with  the  evening  goes, — 
That  man  whom  Wealth  permits,  and  Youth  and  Fate, 
He  knows  about  them  all — He  knows — He  knows  ! 

The  aureate  earth  thou  sett'st  thy  Heart  upon, 
The  River-gardens  thy  heaped  treasure  won, — 
All  must  thou  leave;  nor  cares  the  heir  one  jot 
For  all  thy  toil  and  thee,  once  thou  art  gone. 

Though  Kaikobad  the  Great  thy  sires  begot, 
Or  thou  art  beggar's  spawn, — it  matters  not. 
The  Potter  molded  from  the  same  red  clay 
And  at  his  pleasure  shatters  every  pot. 

All  to  the  one  dark  realm  are  we  addresst ; 
On  every  brow  one  fatal  sign  is  prest ; 
When  nods  the  dark  Ferrash,  the  caravan 
Moves  to  the  dusty  desert, — and  we  rest. 


99 


EPILOGUE 

No  rest  we  find  on  swift  Homeric  seas, 

No  peace  where  Vergil  yearns,  no  hope  where  moan 
The  Argive  choruses  for  kings  overthrown 
In  fated  strife  with  fate.     0  Sophocles, 

0  Dante,  writhing  in  white  agonies, 

Your  cups  of  anguish  must  we  make  our  own? 
0  Milton,  cease  thy  thunderous  antiphone. 

Ye  bring  us  pain;  who  can  afford  us  case? 

Comes  the  enchanter  with  Digentian  wand, 

Not  with  a  soul  apart  nor  bosom  steeled; 
He  smiled  upon  the  world,  and  smiling,  healed; 

Singing  to  his  companions,  few  and  fond, 
Familiar  joys  of  fireside  and  of  field — 
Ah  me,  that  men  should  seek  for  aught  beyond! 


100 


INDEX  OF  ODES 

I.    i.  Maecenas    atavis    41 

5.  Quis   multa  gracilis    19.  67 

6.  Scriberis   Vario    84 

7.  Laudabunt  alii    66 

8.  Lydia,    die    •• 26 

9.  Vides  ut  alta  45 

11.  Tu  ne  quaesieris   16 

13.  Cum  tu,  Lydia   •  • 27 

14.  O    navis    88 

20.  Vile   potabis    •  • 4° 

21.  Dianam  tenerae   55 

22.  Integar  vitae  •  • 17 

23.  Vitas    hinnuleo    24,  79,  92 

24.  Quis   desiderio    •  • 94 

27.  Natis  in  usum    47 

29.  Icci,  beatis   61 

31.  Quid  dedicatum   57 

33.  Albi,  ne  doleas  29 

37.  Nunc  est  bibendum  63 

38.  Persicos  odi    65 

II.    3.  Aequam  memento   98 

6.  Septimi,   Gadis    96 

14.  Eheu    f ugaces    •  • 43,  90 

20.  Non   Usitata    86 

III.  9.  Donee  gratus  eram  22 

13.  O  fons  Bandusiae  56 

18.  Faune,  nympharum  54 

22.  Montium  custos   51 

23.  Caelo  supinas    82 

26.  Vixi  puellis    25,  80 

28.  Festo  quid  potius  52 

IV.  3.  Quern  tu,  Melpomene 49 

8.  Donarem  pateras   76 

13.  Audivere,   Lyce 31 


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